Читать книгу City of the Lost - Will Adams - Страница 19

It was dark by the time Georges Bejjani returned to the small fishing port of Kapisuyu. Lights on the boats and around the harbour walls reflected charmingly upon the ruffled water, while the light breeze made steel cables tinkle like wind-chimes against the masts of the pleasure boats. He walked briskly to the Dido’s berth, found his elder brother Michel waiting impatiently on deck. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he demanded.

‘Hospital.’

‘Hospital?’ Michel frowned over Georges’ shoulder to look for Faisal and Sami. ‘Is one of the guys hurt?’

‘No. They’re fine. They’re parking the car.’

‘Then why hospital?’

All his life, Georges had looked up to Michel. He was his elder brother, after all, and heir apparent to the Bejjani Group. But then Michel had let himself get played by a third-rate Mexican conman on a fictional property deal in Acapulco, losing the bank several hundred thousand dollars and making an international laughing stock of them all for a few months. The succession had thus been put in doubt, and suddenly Georges had discovered in himself an unexpected ambition. ‘Perhaps I should explain to you and Father together. No point going through it twice.’

‘Father’s on with the executive committee. He won’t want to be disturbed unless it’s—’

‘He’ll want to be disturbed for this. Where is he? His cabin?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but made his way along the starboard deck to his father’s suite. As Michel had indicated, he was on a conference call. He held up a finger to beg their silence for a moment then told his management team he had to go and that they’d pick it up again tomorrow. Then he rang off. ‘About time,’ he told Georges. ‘Where have you been? Why didn’t you call in?’

‘The coverage in Antioch is terrible,’ said Georges. Which was true enough, but he’d also turned off his mobile for tactical reasons, so that he’d have the chance to present his ideas and discoveries in person.

‘Well? What have you learned?’

Georges sat in an armchair and stretched his legs out in front of him. In this world, the trick was always to look in command. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard how they’re saying the bomb was Cypriots. In which case, we don’t need to worry about it. We can leave it to the police.’

Michel sighed theatrically. ‘It’s really taken you all afternoon to work that out?’

‘We only need to worry if it wasn’t Cypriots,’ continued Georges imperturbably. ‘We only need to worry if the bombers really were after Father. Imagine for a moment that that’s the case. We all know how hard it is to kill a well-protected target with a car bomb, even one that big.’ Every Lebanese citizen was painfully familiar with assassination techniques. ‘You can’t simply set a timer and then leave. The kill zone is small and you have to make sure your target is in it when you detonate. That means having line of sight not just on the bomb itself but on all the possible approaches too. And the only way to guarantee that is by being on the spot. Which makes it a dangerous business, because you’ll be in the danger zone yourself should it trigger early for any reason. And, if this one was meant for Father, then by definition it triggered early.’

Butros nodded thoughtfully. ‘You think the bomber was caught in his own blast?’

‘I thought it worth exploring,’ agreed Georges. ‘So we tailed an ambulance to Antioch hospital, where they’ve taken all the victims. Then it was a matter of finding a friendly nurse willing to sell us a casualty list.’

‘And?’

‘One of the dead men was called Mustafa Habib,’ said Georges. ‘Executive manager of the Istanbul branch of a British company called Global Analysis. According to their website, they provide business intelligence services to multinational corporations.’

‘Company spies,’ muttered Butros. He glanced at his elder son. ‘Are they the ones your London friends warned you about?’

‘They only told me they’d been approached themselves,’ answered Michel. ‘They didn’t know who if anyone had been hired.’

‘Anything else?’ Butros asked Georges.

‘Mustafa Habib wasn’t alone. He had a companion with him. This companion gave his card to a paramedic in case they should need to contact him. His name is Iain Black. He is director of Global Analysis’s Middle-Eastern operations. Which makes it all but certain they were in Daphne on a job.’

‘A job!’ scoffed Michel. ‘They were there for us. They set that fucking bomb.’

Butros shook his head. ‘What kind of assassin takes business cards on a hit with him? What kind of assassin would then give one to a paramedic?’

‘You’re not suggesting it was coincidence, are you?’ protested Michel. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Nor me.’ He brooded a few moments before he came to his decision. ‘Michel,’ he said. ‘Get in touch with your London friends. Have them find out what they can about this man Black and his company Global Analysis. Their clients, their reputation, their range of services. But discreetly, discreetly. I don’t want them knowing we’re onto them.’ He turned back to Georges. ‘I want to talk with this man Black myself. I want to look him in the eye when I ask him what he was doing at the hotel. I want to look him in the eye when I ask him if he tried to kill me.’

‘You’re not leaving the boat, Father,’ said Georges. ‘Not until we know what’s going on.’

‘Then perhaps we should invite him here for lunch tomorrow.’

‘As you wish, Father,’ said Georges. ‘But what if he says no?’

Butros smiled thinly. ‘I really wasn’t thinking of that kind of invitation,’ he said.